by Nancy Warren
The subway had that eerie light that always seemed more bizarre at night. The people in their car—a couple of teenagers, tired people who looked like they worked shifts—were completely uninterested in the fact that she and Healey couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
“My place?” she whispered against his lips.
“Mine.” He kissed her, deep, until she felt weak with desire. “It’s close.”
She didn’t care. She’d have done it right here if he’d asked her. “You said you’d tell me what you were going to do to me—you said you’d tell me on the subway ride.”
“Did I?” He let his fingers toy with the hem of her dress, tracing the inside of her knee, finding the bump ridiculously exotic. “I’d rather show than tell. I think you have the sexiest knees I’ve ever felt,” he informed her.
He traced a little higher, enjoying the landscape of bumpy stocking and satiny skin. The stockings looked like hell in his opinion, but they felt like sex.
They piled out of the subway, walked the few short blocks to his apartment, stopping frequently to push up against buildings in the dark and feel each other’s bodies, tease each other.
He felt so good, surprisingly buff. His muscles were hard; work-out-three-times-a-day hard. The only other man she’d ever known like that had been a personal trainer she dated for a while. She loved the feel of his shoulders, his belly and chest when they rubbed against hers. The jutting evidence that he was into this as much as she was. But when she tried to slip her hands beneath his jacket, he stopped her, urging her on.
It felt as though they’d been teasing each other for hours; she was so hot she felt as if it must show.
Her dress brushing her thighs excited her, the size and solidity of the man beside her excited her, the scent of spring in the air aroused her and, most of all, the thrill of knowing she had no idea where they were going, where they’d make love, what his place would be like, what he would be like.
She was desperate enough that she didn’t even care. He could lie on his back and think about the Knicks for all she cared. So long as he hung on to his impressive erection, she could do everything required to make sure they both had a good time. You could never tell with big, solid men.
He lived in a nondescript walk-up. No doorman. His apartment was on the second floor. She had a sense that the place would be full of workout equipment, a big-screen TV would dominate and his kitchen would be well-stocked with protein powder.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
He opened the door and flicked on a light, giving his place a visual sweep as though checking to make sure it was clean, which was what she’d have done. Except that this was the cleanest, neatest home she’d ever seen. Where was the junk? The dirty dishes? The clothes tossed in corners?
“I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared through the doorway she assumed was the bedroom. She walked in. Usually she’d use these few moments to do some superficial snooping. What books were on his shelves? Did he have a collection of DVDs? Art on the walls? Trophies? Photos of old girlfriends?
But there wasn’t much around that was snoop-worthy. One slim, sleek black bookcase held a few thrillers, some science books, a couple of volumes on natural healing. If he had family or old-girlfriend pictures they were hidden away somewhere.
She stepped into the kitchen, thinking maybe there’d at least be a few dirty dishes in the sink to make her feel more at home. Nothing. The sink was shiny.
“You want something to drink?” His voice startled her; she hadn’t heard him return.
“Your sink is shiny.” He must have a very good maid.
“I like to keep things neat.” Finicky. Just great.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, running his lips up her nape so she shivered. “You want to stand here admiring my sink or get naked?”
Of course, maybe a man who shined his sink to perfection did everything to perfection. Maybe he wasn’t finicky. But thorough. In the bedroom, she thought, thorough was very, very good. She sighed, leaned back into his warmth. “Get naked.”
“I’m sure we’ll get to the kitchen,” he said, his voice low and sexy, “but for the first time, would you mind if we do it in the bedroom? I have this fantasy involving you and a mirror.”
His voice was slow and heavy, like a drug in her ear, giving her a delicious shiver of excitement.
“You do?”
“Mmm-hmm. Come on,” and he took her hand and led her into his bedroom. Predictably it was neater than a hotel room. The space was dominated by a low, European-looking bed with a simple gray comforter. Where a double closet had once been, he’d replaced it with a bank of drawers and one slim wardrobe cupboard. The mirror was a full-length one on the wall. She imagined him checking to see that all his buttons were done up correctly and that his socks were the regulation height as he dressed. A smallish flat-screen TV wall-mounted and a couple of Japanese block prints made up his art collection. Aside from the bed, the only furniture was a chair shaped like an S.
She considered going to check out the block prints since she liked art in all its forms, then he licked her shoulder and she decided she had plenty of time to check out his etchings. Later.
She turned, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Slow and deep. They’d been toying with each other now for what seemed like hours. She wanted the craziness to continue, to block out her pain, so she pushed her tongue boldly into his mouth, rubbed herself against him like a very passionate, sexually frustrated cat. “Why don’t you tell me about this fantasy of yours?”
“You’re standing in front of the mirror, undressing.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m watching.” He swallowed.
“From the bed? The chair?”
He shook his head. “I’m outside. I’m a stranger, watching you through the window.”
“Peeping Tom. That’s nice.”
“You take your time undressing. You’re kind of flirty about it.”
“I’m doing a striptease for myself?”
Once again he shook his head. “You know I’m there, watching. You pretend you don’t, but I can see the excitement in your eyes, the anticipation. I’ve been watching you, night after night, going crazy wanting you and you’ve been toying with me.” His fingers tracked over her shoulder and his voice was so husky she felt as though the words were true. As though he’d been watching and wanting her for days. It was a good fantasy, one she could absolutely enjoy playing out, so she turned away, faced the mirror, wishing she was wearing more clothing.
She heard him settle into the chair—glad he wasn’t going to go all method on her and climb out the window. She ignored him. Concentrating on her own reflection. Wow, she looked feverish. Her eyes overbright, her cheeks flushed, her breathing light and rapid. She felt a heat burning low in her belly and knew she wouldn’t be able to drag this thing out very long.
For she knew that in teasing him she was tormenting herself and tonight of all nights she wanted release. Needed it with a fierce desperation.
She contemplated herself in the mirror; she had kind of a Twiggy-meets-Fight-Club look going on. No idea what she’d been thinking. Her hands went slowly to the neck of the dress. She thought her breasts were among her prettiest features so it only made sense to give him a hint of them and make him wait while she revealed the rest of herself to him.
This wasn’t the first time she’d bedded a virtual stranger, but she’d quit one-night stands after college. She knew that it was grief making her act so foolishly but she was driven by forces she barely understood and certainly couldn’t control.
There was a rush she’d all but forgotten in seducing a stranger, and with this game they were playing there was an extra level of sizzle in her blood.
Slowly she undid one of the buttons at her throat. A second button. The third revealed a hint of cleavage and the edge of a lacy black bra. The man behind her remained still but she felt his eyes on
her reflection, was almost certain she heard a quiet “yes” as she began to reveal herself.
Taking her time about it, she lifted the hem of the dress and peeled it slowly over her head. She felt the burning intensity of his gaze as the fabric rose higher and higher until she’d pulled it over her head. He might be a neat freak but she wasn’t. She tossed the dress into a corner, enjoying the way the crumpled dress stuck out in the neat room like graffiti on a white wall.
Boots next, she decided, bending slowly to untie them, giving him a good view of her rear and of her breasts straining against the lace of her cups. One by one she removed her boots, sending them sailing across the room with twin thunks.
The stockings were next. With infinite patience she peeled them down her legs, feeling his impatience burn in a way that only ignited her own and yet perversely made her slow her movements, torturing them both.
She straightened again and regarded herself in the mirror, knowing he was watching the same refection. Did he like what he was seeing? Her breasts weren’t showgirl size, but they were shapely and held their own. Her hips were narrow, her legs long and lean. Not exactly a centerfold, but she liked her body, enjoyed sharing it.
She put her hands to her back to unsnap her bra and as she did so she glanced behind her. She was only checking to make sure he was paying attention, but as she looked at him their gazes connected and she felt as though lightning had struck. Heat, fire, sizzle, shock, she couldn’t look away. Neither, it seemed, could he. So, while her body was displayed for him in the mirror, he gazed into her eyes. The snap gave, she eased the fabric away, and still he stared into her eyes. It probably wasn’t the most intimate act of her life, but it sure felt like it.
The game ended.
He rose from the chair, fully dressed while she wore only a black lace thong.
He pulled her to him wordlessly, crushing her lips with his mouth, his hands going everywhere at once. She dragged at his shirt, his belt, bumped into his hands trying to perform the same tasks. If her striptease had been a thing of slow seduction, his was one of clumsy haste.
She almost growled in frustration as she fumbled at his belt until he pushed her hands away and did the job himself, though not all that suavely. He jammed his slacks down his legs, kicking them off in a way she knew had to be totally out of character. His briefs followed; his shirt was over his head and sailing into the corner to join her discarded clothing.
Pushing back the coverlet on the bed, he tripped her back so she fell into the soft, cool sheets. He followed, his body so hot against hers. His hands were everywhere, molding her, learning her. She felt soft and pliable compared to his boot-camp-tough body. And yet his mouth was so soft, tender almost as it traced her collarbone, her breasts. He licked the underside and she felt like screaming. The sensations were racing too fast for her to keep up. He reached down, slipping his hand into her panties, reaching for her center where she knew she was already slick with desire.
Suddenly he flipped her so she was on her tummy. His tongue traced the outlines of her tattoo. “Why a sailboat?” he asked in that gruff, deep voice that resonated with banked passion.
“To remind me I’m always free to sail away.”
He continued rubbing her hot spot even as his mouth toyed with the tattoo and his lips traced the bones and ridges of her back.
He paused to remove her panties, sliding them slowly down her legs.
Then he was back, teasing her once more. “And the anchor?”
What anchor? She could barely think clearly with his hand moving in rhythmic circles. “Anchor?”
“The tattoo on your ankle,” he said as though realizing she couldn’t think straight.
“To keep me grounded,” she panted.
He reached over and she heard a drawer open, then the familiar rustle and tear of a condom wrapper.
Heat rushed through her. Soon he’d be inside her, and she didn’t think she could wait another second.
Sure enough she felt him nudge between her thighs, heavy and warm, finding the hot, open place. He entered her slowly, stretching and reaching, up, up to that magic spot. When he hit it she groaned.
He kept up the motion of his fingers working her clit and began to drive into her.
Wild, crazy sounds spilled out of her mouth, nonsense words and cries, as she bucked against him, driving them both to the edge of madness.
He took her up and over the edge and then as her cries subsided, he grabbed her hips and pumped, long, deep strokes that drove her up again until they both fell off the edge of the world. She sailed, and the weight of his body kept her grounded.
9
LEXY’S STOMACH REMINDED HER that it was dinnertime. Pendegraff’s stomach must be on the same schedule for he’d emerged into the kitchen and was peering into the well-stocked fridge.
“Does someone shop for you or did you carry me unconscious into the grocer’s to get all these supplies?”
He turned, and she noticed he’d showered also. And changed into a dark blue cashmere sweater and black pants. She thought that dark green would have looked better with his eyes, and wondered if he didn’t wear dark green for that very reason. “Much as I like the mental image, I’ve got a housekeeper who cleans the place and shops when I let her know I’m coming.”
“Handy.”
“Grilled chicken okay? Or there’s tofu. I wasn’t sure what you eat.”
“Chicken’s fine.” She washed her hands. “What can I do?”
“Salad?”
“Sure.”
From the fridge he drew out a bottle of white wine and, without asking her, opened it and poured two glasses.
“I feel like we should have a toast,” she said. “I mean, this is probably the strangest situation I’ve ever been in.”
He held his glass aloft. “Here’s to the pleasure of meeting you. I only wish I had you here alone under different circumstances.”
Their gazes connected along with their glasses. She didn’t say what she was thinking, which was that she wished she had her own wardrobe with her if she was going to be alone with him. The pink snowflake put her at a disadvantage.
While he prepared the chicken, she dug through cupboards and found one of those gourmet packages of fancy rice and seasonings and put that on to cook. Then she put together a salad.
It was oddly homey making dinner with an attractive man. And completely strange at the same time. She thought he felt it, too, for they ended up having typical first-date conversation. Books they liked, movies they’d seen, music, sports, even New York politics.
When the dinner was almost ready, he said, “Okay with you if we eat in the den?”
“Yes, sure.”
He had little fold-out tables, kind of like the TV trays her folks used to use only way fancier. Brought the food out and he flipped the switch to bring the gas fire to light. Normally she’d have been disappointed not to have a real wood fire, but right now she thought gas flames that could be controlled with a switch were just fine.
She’d wondered if they’d end up watching TV with their dinner but the screen stayed blank. Instead he turned his chair so he was facing her. “I’ve got the makings of a plan to catch Grayson,” he said.
“That’s very good news.”
“I’m glad you think so, because the plan involves you.” He glanced over at her. “How quickly could you make a piece of jewelry?”
“Depends what it is.”
“Let’s say I wanted you to copy the Isabella Emeralds.”
She shook her head immediately. “Can’t be done. There’s no way I could source emeralds of that quality and color. You wouldn’t have to be a jeweler to spot the fake. Grayson, or anyone who knew the piece, would see that the color was off. And while I can re-create the setting, getting the gold to exactly the right patina would take a lot of trial and error.”
He nodded. Ate a bite of chicken. He’d put some kind of a rub on it and grilled it to perfection, naturally. “What if you wore the
original to the gala? And the copy only had to fool somebody who believed they were getting the original? And only for a little while?”
“Bait and switch?”
“Exactly. In fact, this might work out better. Maybe we leave a trail of bread crumbs, make it easy for Grayson to get the necklace back, but we want Grayson to know he’s ended up with a fake.”
She blew out a breath. “If I had all my tools and an operating workshop, and all the supplies, and Amanda to help me, I guess I could have it done in time for the gala.” Mentally she went through the steps and the time each would take, but of course in her imagination, she was working in her own space. “But I don’t have my tools, or my studio and Amanda thinks I’m dead.”
“None of those are insurmountable obstacles,” he said in a voice of reason that made her want to hit him.
“Well, I could come back from the dead pretty easily, I’ve got friends who would lend me their studios and tools, but what I don’t seem to have is the raw materials or the substantial wad of cash I’d need to buy them.”
He turned to her and grinned. “See, I told you it was easy. You solved all the problems but one. And I can buy the raw materials.” There was a light shining in his eyes that she thought was excitement. It was like he couldn’t wait to waltz into Grayson’s gala escorting her and a million-dollar heirloom he’d stolen. “We’re a great team.”
Instead of answering, she rolled her eyes.
“But I really don’t want you back in New York yet. Somebody could spot you, or one of your friends could accidentally let slip that you were alive and well and working on a secret commission.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that her friends were completely loyal. Then she closed it again. They were loyal, every one of them, but did she really want to burden them with her presence? Especially if someone was out to kill her?
“So you don’t want me to copy the necklace.”
“I do. I’ve got a…connection with a jeweler here, in Colorado. We’ve done some work together in the past.”
She didn’t want to speculate aloud on what relationship a thief and a jeweler might have that was mutually beneficial, since she was pretty sure he wouldn’t tell her anyway. In truth, she didn’t want to know. Having watched footage of her burned and ruined business over and over again, and hearing people talk about her as though she were dead, had given her a burning desire to bring Grayson to justice. If she had to work with people who operated in a murkier area, legally, than she, she guessed she was going to get on with it.
